


Internal Saboteur

by Hambone



Category: Lego Ninjago
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Femdom, Forced Orgasm, Imprisonment, Punishment, Snakes, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 12:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14569113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Commander Machia is tired of simply catching Borg in his attempts to stop them. She decides to take the next step in correcting this behavior.





	Internal Saboteur

**Author's Note:**

> A disgusting little romp for my dearest Lan! Warning for snakes detaching from the body during sexual situations. Enjoy~!

    “Do you think that I’m stupid?”

    Cyrus Borg started, cowering like a caged rabbit.

    “C-Commander Machia!”

    He dropped everything he was holding and swiveled his chair to face her, neck instinctively bending low. For a woman made from multiple living, breathing, hissing parts, Machia was incredibly stealthy, and she seemed to delight in showing it off on him. He had been scared from his work so often this week Cyrus was sure he was going to develop a heart condition. For the thousandth time he had to wonder if becoming a millionaire inventor was actually worth it. His fortune had already come at a heavy cost, with the Overlord’s assault on his mind still making him awaken some nights, sweating, eyes stinging from dried tear trails. Now this. He had wanted to make people’s lives better, more fun, easier. The tradeoff seemed to be his own peace and sanity.

    “I asked you a question,” she purred, her teeth jagged and gleaming behind the twisted bodies that became her lips. Cyrus tugged at the throat of his turtleneck, feeling cornered.

    “Of course not, madam,” her glare deepened and he scrambled to correct himself, “Commander!”

    For a long and ugly moment she did not move, holding him petrified in her stare. Borg didn’t dare look away, even though every second their eyes were locked felt as though he was being stripped and searched. Across the room, one of the twins took notice. Cyrus couldn’t check, but he was fairly certain he knew which one.

    “Alright,” she said, and he slumped into his chair with a small gasp, relinquished from her hold, “I know you couldn’t possibly be so foolish as to think I wouldn’t notice you tampering, so you must be making another mistake, mustn’t you?”

    He nodded feverishly. Machia crossed her arms over her motile breast, massive and calculating over him. Cyrus played with the leather of his glove nervously, wanting to shrink away to nothing.

    “Yes, yes, I-I’m sorry about that,” he started to turn his wheelchair back to the workbench while speaking, hoping to escape into his ill-fated job once again,      “I’ll rectify that immediately-“

    “Only, someone as intelligent as you, as well respected, awarded, and rich as the famous Cyrus Borg shouldn’t be making such a novice mistake, should he?”

    Her tone made him flinch.

    “We-well, I’ve not been sleeping my best lately and,” he choked on his words as she abruptly grabbed the back of his chair with one hand, easily flipping him around to face her again. Her eyes glowed like jewels in a chasm.

    “Doubtful.”

    Terrified now, he locked his fingers in his lap, trembling.

    “I-I don’t…”

    “You’ve attempted to sabotage this project five times now,” said Machia, calm and cool as a viper watching its prey squirm, and with equal amounts of anticipatory pleasure. Cyrus bowed his head, twiddling his thumbs.

    “That’s not what I intended,” he squeaked.

    “Yes, it is, and I’m getting very tired of having to catch you in the act.”

    She turned to where Acronix had been watching, intently, though perhaps trying to seem as though he wasn’t.

    “I’m thinking perhaps, instead of just words, we should employ the use of some actual incentive to behave.”

    The snakes that comprised her fingers curled and hissed into the canvas backing of his chair.

    “Punishment.”

    Krux was busy looking across papers, endless and sprawling, but Acronix was grinning from ear to ear.

    “Really,” he purred, taking a step away from his brother, “what do you have in mind?”

    Borg looked at him pleadingly.

    “This is all a misunderstanding!”

    No one paid him any heed.

    “I believe he needs to be taught in a way that will not impede his progress on our machine,” Machia said matter-of-factly, “but will remain within his mind and body for the rest of his employment with us.”

    She said _employment_ in a manner that let Cyrus know he was not going to leave here any time soon, if at all. He gripped the armrests of his chair tightly. The stump of his right arm began to itch, right where the prosthetic fit over it.

    Acronix made a high, excited sound.

    “Go on!”

    Machia smiled thinly, turning back to Cyrus.

    “Perhaps a demonstration would be more,” her snake’s tongue flitted over her fangs, “entertaining for you.”

    Acronix’s grin could have powered the Iron Doom on its own. Cyrus looked back and forth between them, desperate.

    “Please,” he said, “let’s be civilized.”

    Machia smiled down at him, all the little, beady eyes of her many components staring with her.

    “As I understand it, a system of checks and balances is civilized,” she intoned, “and to maintain society punishment must be administered to those who would disrupt the system. Therefore, I am being civilized in the most basic sense.”

    Acronix was giggling quietly, like an excited little schoolboy who had just sold his rival out. Borg tugged at his collar again, stammering uselessly.

    “We-well, I- I mean, it’s really not-“

    “You’re shaking in your boots, scientist,” spat Acronix. He was shifting from foot to foot, clearly unsure of what to do with his hands, and it would have been somewhat hilarious to see at any other time and under any other circumstances.

    “Enough chit chat.”

    Machia grabbed Cyrus by the front of his shirt, balling it into one tangle of a fist and lifting him from his chair with ease. His stammering changed into pleading, panic immediately shorting out all logic in his brain. Cyrus grasped at her arm desperately, sinking in his clothes, glasses skewing off his eyes until he was blind and terrified, at her mercy. The flight didn’t last long. Machia used her other hand to sweep the table clean of all its delicate instruments and blueprints, all the hard work he was so careful with, and deposited him in its place, hard enough to hurt but not badly.

    Not entirely new to this, Borg managed to grab ahold of her arm, struggling to wrench himself away. His memory of her makeup came too late, and several tiny mouths were clamped on his wrist within seconds. He cried out in pain, releasing her instantly and cradling his hand to his chest, eyes wide and wet with horror.

    “Don’t worry, I didn’t inject you with any venom,” Machia said, towering over him, a red stain in the dark, “we need those hands in working condition.”

    Venom or not it hurt, and the fangs of her snakes had gone deep. He was bleeding all over his shirt and jacket, which he tried to weakly wrap around the wounded area as if that would somehow dull the pain. Machia kicked his wheelchair back across the room with a crash, nudging his thighs apart to stand between them. He could see her fangs glint in the shadows of her face.

    “Prepare yourself.”

    She leaned in close, armor clinking together softly. Cyrus did not really know who the Vermillion were or where they had come from, but he had spent enough time trapped down here, surrounded by them, to have a sense of their essence. Everything about them was raw, red. The Serpentine, who he guessed were the descendants of whatever primitive amalgamation the Vermillion had been, always had a cold, slick feel about them; in their art, in the various artifacts he had grown up reading about being unearthed in his science publications, in their method of combat. The Vermillion were the opposite, despite being the same cold blooded reptiles. There was a coating of dust on everything they touched, rust, metals, and they all smelled like blood, and to be near them made his teeth hurt like chewing tin foil.

    Machia fanned her hands out over his stomach, fingers slithering across the fabric with a soft hiss.

    “What are you going to do to him?” Acronix asked again, tense with excitement. Across the room, Krux, the elder twin, scoffed loudly.

    “I have no interest in this.”

    “Then you are free to leave,” Acronix snapped back, not even sparing him a look. His eyes were glued to where Machia held touched, bright and attentive. Sensing the impending loss of what could be his only, tenuous ally, Borg scrambled to push himself up on his elbows as best he could, staring at Krux with fragile hope quivering across his lips.

    “You- you aren’t going to let them do,” he bit his lip, unsure of what exactly they had planned for him, “ _this,_ are you?”

    Krux’s expression was milky and unimpressed. With a quite grumble, too distant to make out, he gathered up whatever he had been writing on into a messy pile in his arms.

    “Nothing permanent.”

    Machia smiled.

    “I give you my word.”

    Everything around him sinking, Cyrus raised an arm as if you grasp at the back of Krux’s robes, to pull himself to safety.

    “Wait-!”

    “Acronix!” Krux snapped over his shoulder as he turned, “are you coming?”

    “In a minute, old man,” Acronix grinned down at Borg as he spoke, “some of us still enjoy having fun.”

    “Pigheaded child.”

    Krux slammed the door. The chamber was small, but it echoed loudly in Borg’s heart. He turned back to Machia, knuckles white where he grasped at the table beneath him. She let one hand find its way up his chest, through the cooling spot where his blood had soaked into his clothing, and cupped his jaw gently. Little tongues flickered against his cheek and he had to focus hard to keep from pulling away.

    “If you are good,” she said, other hand diverging from the first and diving lower, to the buckle of his pants, “I will only have to do this once. If you are bad,” and she tugged at it, once, sharply, splitting his belt in half as a tailor snaps a thread, “then I will not be so merciful.”

    He gaped in horror as she began to tug at the button of his trousers, but her hand squeezed his lips into a pucker and turned him to again face her. She was placid, like all reptiles were, he supposed, even when they lay in wait mere inches from the warm, thrumming light that was their prey, about to strike. Her face, though in constant motion, never seemed to show anything other than poise, maybe pleasure. Her hand slipped into his pants, cold where it met skin.

    “Oh!” said Acronix, leaning on the opposite workbench to observe, “ho!”

    “S-stop!”

    Borg grasped at her with clumsy hands, trying to pull her away from his most sensitive of places, but she began to put such pressure on his jaw he had to divide his attentions between that and keeping himself from being strangled. He didn’t know what kind of snakes the Vermillion were comprised of, exactly, but they were as strong as they were venomous and he had seen them constrict mammals larger than he for a meal. The twins had enjoyed showing him, though he was not sure why, their hatchery, and the livestock they brought in to be their children’s first meal. Perhaps this explained it. As Machia stripped him, he felt like meat.

    “Calm yourself and accept punishment,” she rasped. “Have some dignity.”

    Dignity nothing, he was beginning to froth, mouth still held open uncomfortably. Her thumb, or what passed for that, slipped between his teeth until she had his head grasped firmly in her hand, unable to push forwards or pull away. Instinctively attempting to remove the obstruction to his airway, his tongue forced against the snake head, and it was so smooth, and its taste was as sanguine as its smell. He bucked back fruitlessly, and his glasses skewed even further.

    Unperturbed by his blind gropings, Machia methodically pushed his slacks down to his mid-thigh, then peeled his underwear to roughly the same position. He wished, not for the first time, that he could kick out, catch her in her squirming stomach and free himself and run. But he couldn’t. Instead he lay there and choked and wheezed and she stood and let him tire himself out, unmoved, resolute. The coldness and the acerbity and the taste, metal, blood, reminded him of the Overlord, horribly. Panic struck, and he struggled harder despite knowing there was nothing he could do, snot and tears flowing down his cheeks as he began to garble around her thumb, begging. He no longer tried to pull her off, simply holding her arms, pleading for her touch to turn kind. He remembered what came next, the cutting, the pain, the appalling and surreal experience of seeing yourself come apart and then being stitched back together, like a doll. The way that even his mind was tugged to bits, piece by piece, and reordered into something foreign.

    The Overlord, having been deprived of it so long, delighted in the workings of flesh, and would continue to poke and prod any stimulating cluster of nerves, any gaping wound, until he was so overstimulated from pain and terror that Cyrus would fall catatonic, unconscious or simply unable to react anymore, and it would bore of him and move on. Machia was not the same. She neither soothed nor molested him in his hysteria, simply restraining him, and watching. It didn’t take long for him to burn out, sagging against the work desk with soft, shuddering sobs.

    “There,” she said, and her grip on his jaw released, drawing back to pet his hair softly, readjusting his glasses. His injured arm fell to his chest, and he cradled it close, no longer to dampen the pain but to have something to hold on to. She hadn’t even done anything yet and he was exhausted. He let his head fall back on the desk, gasping wetly.

    She didn’t let him rest long. Her hand had never left his inner thigh during his struggles, and now it began to move again, very slowly, stroking him. He didn’t even have enough energy to jump away, letting it happen with dull discomfort. She pet him back and forth, her other hand leaving his hair to rest on his stomach, ready to hold him down again at the first sign of resistance. There was none. Borg lay, limp and trembling. Pleased with his submission, she moved his thighs apart carefully, making sure she had room to work.

    Acronix had been largely silent the whole time, something that would have been worth commenting on had Cyrus been in anywhere near the right mind for it. The younger time twin was never silent, even when he was engrossed in one of the many electronic appliances he had become obsessed with and continually asked Borg to modify for him. He was enraptured in the experience, watching, open mouthed and cackling under his breath. Machia looked over at him briefly.

    “I am going to proceed without pause now. Don’t interrupt me, I know what I’m doing.”

    Ruffled, but clearly overjoyed, Acronix just scoffed, unable to lose his grin.

    “Don’t try and throw your weight around with me, snake, I made you.”

    “Mm.”

    She could see his cock pressing hard against the inside of his trousers, not having once been touched. Pathetic. These humans had no control whatsoever. This worked to her advantage, however, as she intended to use the same, wild mating instincts all mammals seemed to have against her little captive. With clinical care, she pressed the pad of one finger against the small pucker of Borg’s ass. He jolted, moaning weakly.

    “D-don’t, please.”

    Ignoring him, she began to rub across it gently, up and down, her other hand tracing small circles across his belly. Borg was clean and well-groomed but not particularly fit, with good reason, as inventing needed little musculature to do when it was on the miniature scale all his inventions seemed to come in. His stomach and thighs were soft and pliable, human skin so fragile and pink beneath her touch. She grabbed a handful of his pudgy ass and pulled it apart, watching his hole stretch. Machia did not have a sexual instinct within her. Vermillion did breed, but there was a time and a place for it, and it had no appeal for any reason other than propagation. There was no pleasure in it, really, no sticky clashing of genitals, and she did not feel sexual arousal from watching the way her touch was making Borg’s face and neck cover with splotches of red blush, or how Acronix shifted back and forth to ease the pressure in his pants. Still, something about it was nice. There was a power in this, one she was very keen in learning to control.

    She stuck her finger inside Borg, not more than a few inches. He gasped and tried to crawl away, slipping on loose papers. He was dry, though his blood was so close to the surface here, and his skin stuck to her like firm rubber. His renewed desire to fight her off was likely because it was uncomfortable.

    “Am I hurting you?” she purred, wriggling her finger inside him, “Good.”

    Spreading his thighs further apart with her knees she pressed in deeper, deeper, not too hard, not tearing him, but making sure she got a few good inches inside him. He wasn’t openly weeping anymore, simply shaking his head and making small, grunting sounds of discomfort. It brought her an instinctual sense of joy, watching him struggle like a caught rat. Her chest puffed out, breaths becoming deeper, pupils dilating. Acronix too was having a hard time muffling his heavy breathing, fingers itching at his hips. She could smell the mating fever on his greasy human skin.

    Machia was cruel, but knew the human limits. Withdrawing her finger, she brought her hand to her face, watching Borg all the while. Despite his clear desire to block everything out, he watched her through his glasses with wide eyes, as if physically unable to stop himself. She couldn’t have had his attention more rapt had she forced his eyelids open herself. Pleased by this, she let her tongue slide around her fingers slowly, making a slight show of it as she coated them with a thick layer of her viscous saliva. Her jittering audience couldn’t stop himself from gaping in her peripheral vision. She wasn’t sure if she found his attention annoying or if it bolstered her pride. Machia had no designs against her creators, but the young one’s attitude often interfered with her work and she was beginning to see who really held her admiration between the two.

    With her fingers now slicked, she shoved back inside him. This time he didn’t try to crawl off, but he did gasp and rap his knuckles across the desk. His teeth were grit, and his face was contorted into an ugly, forced shape, and Machia could tell he was doing his best to hide all his pain and shame with it. She smiled.  

    “You understand your place here. I know you’re smart enough to.”

    He nodded frantically, and she smiled, slowly thrusting her finger in and out, teasing him as gently as she could. She knew her human anatomy well – already she could smell the slightest shift in his hormones, the change in the flow of his blood. Her finger slid in deep, a slight, pleasant squelch of her saliva bubbling out around it as his muscles clenched, and she dragged it firmly along the upper wall of his ass each time, marking the way he jumped and moaned weakly each time she grazed his prostate. Borg’s little cock wasn’t quite hard yet, wagging limply each time he jerked away from her or shuddered with disgust and fear, but she smelled the arousal faint upon him.

    “I want you to tell me,” she said, pushing in close to his prostate and massaging it, “that you understand me. I want you to give your word that this pathetic attempt at sabotage will stop.”

    Cyrus was reeling, shaking his head. He’d expected to be beaten, cut, and this was somehow much worse. The Overlord’s touch was always cruel, always, but Machia, despite her dangerous physiology, was careful with him, scientific. She knew exactly how much pressure to place, how to keep him on the edge of discomfort while still building up what he hated to admit was sexual sensation. It was confusing, and frightening. His stomach was swimming, and he felt sick, but mostly he felt ashamed.

    “I-I-I understand,” he gasped, sweat streaming down his temple. The effort it took to keep himself held together was herculean, agonizing, but he was terrified to let go, as if he’d tumble apart into millions of squirming snakes, as the Vermillion did, pulled in different directions and no longer himself. This was the last shred of power he had, the power to stay Cyrus Borg, and even that he was losing.

    “Please, please stop!”

    Machia made a low, hissing sound deep within her throat, a mangled purr. With a jolt of horror, Borg felt another fingertip, snake head, force itself at his ass. He clenched down, trying to keep it out, but that only heightened the sensation of her pressing against his prostate. His head fell back, hair matted on his forehead. This was not pain, but he felt like he was going to die nonetheless. Her finger easily spread him anyways, slithering inside to join the first, and as a reward for his failure she thrust them together sharply, no longer simply kneading his sensitive nerves but pounding them. He cried out, arching weakly as his elbows smacked the metal desk hard and pushed him upwards.

    “Oh, yes!” Acronix hissed, wriggling a hand down his pants as he finally gave in to his animal nature. Machia had the whole room beneath her heel, and she liked it. Borg’s fingers were clenched into fists, shaking uselessly in the air and she thrust into him again and again, forcing pleasure upon him until his sorrowful gasps were overtaken by the unwanted thrill. His cock was bouncing with each thrust, harder and harder without having even been touched. The tip gleamed, the barest hint of precum beginning to bead along his slit.

    “I’ll stop when I’m convinced I’ve taught you,” she said, still as calm as she had been. The heat from the two mammalian bodies around her was invigorating, her cold blood beating faster and faster.

    “Yeah,” said Acronix, furiously jerking his hand beneath the cover of his trousers, “you teach him!”

    “Please.” She shot him a look, “you’re disrupting the lesson.”

    “That’s really hot,” he panted, apparently not having taken in any of what she’d said.  Rolling her eyes, all of them, she pulled her hand back. As she did this, however, her fingers remained, snakes sliding down her arm and into Borg, deeper and deeper, until her arm fell easily to her side and two red tails were wriggling the rest of the way inside. Cyrus wailed, and this time when he grappled with the table, trying to pull away, she let him, watching with a distinctly smug smile as what she had left inside him balled and coiled, pushing at his fragile body in ways nothing else could.

    “Wh-what have you-!” he broke off with a choking moan, trying to sit up and failing as she let her two pieces writhe together. “Take them out! Oh, oh god-!”

    The abject horror of what she was doing to him was too much to comprehend, and the two twisting bodies stretched his soft body more and more. They were so deep, moving constantly, rubbing his prostate, his delicate membranes in places that should never be touched. His cock was unaffected by his revulsion, pink and hard, pointing upwards, no longer with enough youthful vigor to reach his stomach but making a bold effort. Machia paced to the side of the table, pushing roughly past Acronix, which seemed to please him, and leaning over Borg until their she could taste his breath and, had any of the tiny lungs within her focused close, he hers.

    “You’re doing very well, Borg,” she said, observing his desperation, “I think you’ll benefit from this greatly.”

    “P-please!” he cried, still trying to escape the sensation, “let me go!”

    “Yes, you’ll learn. A soft, malleable body such as yours takes whatever shape its taught and keeps it, provided the hand that molds it is firm.”

    He couldn’t respond, not properly at least, moaning and pushing at himself incoherently. Machia could see the way his orgasm was building. She laid a hand on his chest, pushing him to the desk, hard.

    “I think you’ll find my touch is very, very firm.”

    Another snake broke away from her arm, slipping down across his belly to coil around his weeping cock. Cyrus howled, reaching for it, but Machia stopped him with a deep growl, digging her remaining fingers into his skin, their tiny teeth exposed and poised to bite. Inside him, her snakes thrashed into a frenzy, pushing him open so wide that Acronix, from where he stood, could occasionally see the pink muscle give and pulse, flexing. Around his dick her other limb constricted, stroking him up and down, its tongue flickering out to lap inside his slit, and she tasted his cum inside her larger body’s mouth. It was thin but delicious, like watered down blood and skin and something else, unique to genetic material.

    Hunger bubbled up inside her, and, upon a rare impulse, she leaned down and swallowed Borg’s howling cries, pushing her living lips to his, her tongue sliding inside his mouth and down his throat. He didn’t gag, and she wondered if he had been trained to loosen his throat before, and she squeezed handfuls of his soft belly and left pectoral, fatty and supple as a breast. Borg came, gripping her sides tightly, almost trying to pull her closer as he seized with pleasure and terror. His orgasm was intense, and long, thick, slow cum bursting from his cock in uneven pulses. Machia kissed him so hard she knew he would bruise, hearing with every small eardrum the crunch of his capillaries.

    She didn’t relent until he was sagging, barely able to hold on, depleted. When she pulled away he gasped and gasped, face dark red. Acronix was slumped against the other workbench, panting, pants wet.

    “It seems we’ve all reached a satisfactory result,” she said, standing up. She kept one arm resting on Borg’s stomach as her snake released his cock, and the two inside breached him. Borg made a soft, plaintive keening sound as they writhed their way back to her and disappeared into her larger mass, leaving his ass gaping and wet. It was an awful, empty feeling, mainly because the ache of pleasure still sent shocks through his body every time his muscles twitched, trying to close him.

    “Satisfactory indeed,” Acronix wheezed, giggling under his breath. Machia turned to Borg, ruined and exhausted where he lay.

    “I expect good behavior from you from now on, do you understand?”

    He pressed his hands to his face, hiding his eyes.

    “Yes.”

    “Yes what?”

    A shuddering gasp broke him.

    “Yes, Commander Machia.”

    Satisfied that her work was completed, Machia nodded to Acronix and left them to sort themselves out. She was hungry, and she called her spawn to her with offerings.

 

 

 


End file.
